


when life leaves us blind

by orphan_account



Category: Death Note
Genre: Alternate Universe, Autism, Depression, Grief, M/M, Swearing, Therapy, anger issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4314363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mello's outlandish behavior has landed him in the principal's office, counseling center, and in-school suspension one too many times. Frustrated and out of options, his guardian and school counselor suggest he try therapy. Along the way he finds Near, or Near finds him.</p><p>Title from the Linkin Park song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KDOkMSf-F14">"The Messenger."</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	when life leaves us blind

**Author's Note:**

> ten guesses who can play this song on guitar

He's just here to work on anger issues, and he wanted everyone to know that.  _Everyone_. The school counselor, his legal guardian, the few friends he had (more like acquaintances, he knows they think he's off his rocker), the receptionist, the people in the parking lot - possibly even the squirrels in the tree outside. He wanted everyone to know that Mihael Keehl was only at a therapist's office because his school guidance counselor forced him to go, and for some reason his grandad actually  _agreed_  with the moron.

Honestly. What the fuck did Mr. Yagami know about him anyway?

"Mihael Keehl?" the receptionist calls and he bites back immediately, "It's Mello. Call me Mello." Not because he has some sort of hatred of his own name, he's just hoping the ironic moniker will get him out of there quicker. Besides, he doesn't need anyone in this loony bin knowing his real name. He'd die if anyone found out.

(As if he didn't tell them already.)

"Okay," the receptionist says, pretty blonde eyebrow raised. "Mello, do you have your insurance card with you?"

He stands and pulls it out of his pocket. He only gets close enough to extend his arm and offer the damn thing. He drops it on the counter before the receptionist can even take it from his hand, and starts to scurry back to his seat before she says, "This will only take a minute." So he stands there, face turning bright pink as he waits for her to hurry it the hell up.

He feels like everyone is watching him.

"All done!" she chirps, handing the card back to him, too much of her fingers covering the plastic. Again, he touches as little of the card as he has to, hastily shoving it back in his pocket and stomping back to his seat.

He hates this thing. He hates this whole place. He hates the fake decor of plastic plants, pseudo-calming music and knockoff impressionist paintings. He hates the deep orange of the walls and the brownish carpeting, the closed white doors that look foreboding to his anxiety. But most of all, he hates the people in this place.

One dark-haired woman has her knees bouncing, fingers tapping against them as she bites her lip, eyes flickering everywhere but right in front of her. She looks at Mello for a minute, and her knees stop bouncing.

He looks away from her quickly and grumbles under his breath; why do the weirdos have to focus on him? But with his head turned he sees two more people: a dark-haired man with his knees pulled to his chest, muttering to himself and cleaning his fingernails with a pocket knife; and a white-haired boy on the floor, rolling toy cars back and forth on the carpet.

He's the only one who doesn't set the hairs on the back of Mello's neck on end, so he launches himself forward and asks, "Hey, you got a light?"

They boy stops playing with his toys long enough to look up at Mello. "Aren't you a little young to be smoking?" he asks.

Mello snorts at him, tossing his hair to appear indignant.  _Crap_ , he thinks. "I'm eighteen, I'll have you know," he states, and then wonders why the hell he's bothering to explain this to a  _child_.

"No, you're not," the boy opposite replies. He's looking back down at the cars he's playing with. He makes  _vroom_  sound, and sends one over in Mello's direction, The car veers off direction and crashes into Mello's thigh, bouncing back a little. Mello can feel his eye twitch a little and diverts his gaze. With his teeth ground together, he responds,

"How the hell would you know?"

The boy looks at Mello as if he's being intentionally thick, mouth drawn into a straight line. Mello has to restrain himself from lashing out and hitting him. "We're in the same class...Mello? That's what you asked her to call you, right?" His eyes dive back down as the other car goes flying, coming to a stop at the box of Legos to his right.

Mello stares openly, trying to remember where he'd seen this boy before if ever. In one of his classes? He didn't look old enough to be a high school student - not with his withdrawn posture or the way he was constructing a house with the Legos he'd pulled in front of him. But watching him play with his head down, building something Mello didn't really care about, it occurred to him that he had seen this kid before. "You're in my science class," he answers, the fog of his mind producing an image with this other boy hiding in the back, toying around with a pencil instead of talking to their classmates. "And math."

He nods, still not looking up at Mello. "You can call me Near, by the way," he says. Near holds a handful of Legos out to Mello.

"Aren't you a little old to be playing with toys?" he asks, not acknowledging the outstretched hands.

If his brusque behavior upsets Near, he doesn't show it. He just shrugs, dumping the little blocks on the floor and picking through them methodically. "Mr. Matsuda says there's nothing wrong with it," he says. "It beats a lot of other things some other autistic kids my age do." He's building some sort of tower. Mello idly wonders if it's that strangely constructed building in the middle of town. It was built recently, but no one knows why, and no one is ever seen going into or out of it. He's heard rumors it was some sort of police headquarters, but that seems a little ridiculous. "My dad eats sweets," he offers as an example.

"Your dad's autistic too?" he asks, and Near shrugs and nods. "Didn't realize that was genetic."

Near doesn't answer that, stacking more of the blocks on top of one another. After a few minutes that Near probably doesn't realize are awkward for Mello, he asks, "So what are you here for?"

"None of your goddamn business," Mello snaps, before he can really think about it.

Near looks at him. Mello feels like he's being scolded. "No need to be rude," he reminds loftily, going back to his construction. "I thought you might want to talk about it, that's all."

"Why would I want to talk about it?" he grumbles.

"Because you knew I didn't have a lighter," he says simply.

Mello blinks. "What?" 

"You thought I was a child. It's alright, most people do. I'm sixteen, and I don't look my age." It's bothering Mello, how Near doesn't look up when he's speaking. "But why would a child have a lighter?" he asks. He waits a half second, realizes Mello has no intention of responding, and continues. "The answer is, they wouldn't."

"Yeah, I figured," Mello mutters.

"If you really wanted a lighter," Near continues as if he hasn't heard Mello at all, "You would have asked that man over there." He tilts his head in the direction of the dark haired man with his legs drawn to his knees. He's staring at them now, eyes almost red. Mello's frozen staring back, watching him mouth the word 'thirteen' over and over again until Mello can pull his eyes away. "He's been mumbling to himself for the past twenty minutes about how he's going to set himself on fire. So either you were simply looking for someone to talk to and decided I was the safest option, or some part of you - conscious or subconscious - recognized me." He slides a few blocks into place and looks up at Mello, smiling softly.

It's a little creepy. Somehow, it just doesn't fit his face. "Or, I'm just stupid," Mello counters, throwing his arms in the air.

"No," Near says simply. "You're not stupid at all."

He doesn't want to, but Mello smiles involuntarily. Near opens his mouth to say something else but they're interrupted by a crisp, clear voice calling for "Keehl, Mihael." 

The use of his real name isn't the only thing that causes Mello to glare. 

* * *

Takada Kiyomi isn't simpering like Mello expects her to be. She sits with her hands in her lap and her legs crossed and takes all of Mello's rants and outbursts without a single falter. She won't just give Mello something to help with the anger he throws, insisting that he needs to keep coming back for regular therapy.

"You won't tell Mr. Yagami if I don't," he tests, more of a question than a statement.

"We're old school friends," she says, voice level. "I most certainly will."

He says "fine" in the way most people say  _fuck you_  and storms out of the small office. When he exits into the lobby, Roger is waiting for him, reading a book politely. The man with the arson ambitions is peering through the window into the front desk. The anxious woman pushes past Mello, heading back, with all probability, to the room he's just exited. 

Near is nowhere to be seen.


End file.
